


Self Appreciation Day

by Pseudthisyafucks (collettephinz)



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Realization of Feelings, Semi-public masturbation, all ships are fantasies, endgame jelix, public place but no one witnesses, pure boy, self deprecation, self discovery, self exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 05:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collettephinz/pseuds/Pseudthisyafucks
Summary: Who would Jack let fuck him?





	Self Appreciation Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ema670](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ema670/gifts).



> ema670 wanted jack porn so idk i did my best to deliver but you know me can't write anything that ain't my OTP :P

Jack couldn’t help but admit that he looked good.

Rebuilding his self esteem had been a slow process that had originally involved far too many trips to the gym and quite a few angled selfies in the locker room to try and get the light to catch on his stomach and abdomen to show just how hard he’d been working. Now, after so many hours spent toning himself and carving away fat for muscle, Jack would be stupid to deny that he was attractive and thriving with masculine energy and that he’d definitely fuck himself. Why wouldn’t he? Jack always felt like that was the best way to know his worth. If he’d fuck himself, he’d done something right. And standing here, in front of the full body mirror in the empty locker room gym, Jack would absolutely bend himself over and give himself that nice, hard dick. 

His eyes roved over the planes of his chest, down the angle of his stomach and over the sharp curve of his hips. The only part of himself he hadn’t ever managed to “man up” were his hips. They were wide and soft and like a woman’s, and that probably added to his fuckability, but Jack had done so many fucking squats hoping to flatten the curve of his hips, and to no such luck. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with having girly hips— he could think of quite a few men who had hips like his and could make the most manly figure in existence— but he’d always been looking to fix this just because he didn’t like how _soft_ they made him look. 

Jack ran his hand over his hips, resting on the sharp bone beneath the skin, imagined what it would be like to fuck himself. Not because he was a narcissist, but because he was curious. His hips were perfect to hold onto, twin handles to pin him down and drive him up the mattress. His skin was pale so they’d showcase the bruises left behind by tight grips and teeth like artwork. Jack’s breath caught as his own grip on his hips became a little too tight, demonstrating to himself what it could feel like. Jack couldn’t fuck himself, though, but what about—

God, who would Jack let fuck him?

There was a list, but it wasn’t necessarily wrong. Jack couldn’t really imagine himself being fucked by a man, though he had thought of fucking other men. Call it bi-curious or whatever, he had never really felt the urge to pursue a man romantically, but if the right person offered for a one night stand, Jack wasn’t entirely sure he would say no. He liked to try new things and broaden his horizons and never turn down a new opportunity. So if someone— a very particular someone— ever offered, then maybe Jack would be willing. 

Who would it be though?

Jack bit his lip as his eyes roamed his own figure in the mirror. He went through all of the men he knew personally and wondered if what Jack was seeing now would appeal to any of them. There were a few celebrity crushes— one very specific celebrity crush as well— but Jack couldn’t quite picture himself letting Ryan Reynolds push his face into the mattress and leave those bruises on his hips. Jack’s fingertips dug into the flesh of his gut and his breath was coming faster now. Should he really be thinking about this in the gym locker room? It was almost two AM, there was barely anyone in the gym at all, but it was still a public place. Jack’s eyes darted around, saw only two cameras that were trained on the lockers and not where Jack was standing in front of the mirror. He sunk his teeth harder into his lip and glanced around before looking back to the mirror.

He’d read once that getting off while looking at himself was a good way to— god, Jack didn’t even know what, but he knew it had something to do with liking how he looked. And it wasn’t vain, right? Mark probably got off in front of a mirror all the time, the arrogant son of a bitch. Jack remembered recording that pole dancing video with Mark, the way he’d been almost hypnotized by the look of his own reflection twisting around that pole with little grace but more flexibility than he’d expected to have. It was like that, wasn’t it? No harm done. And it wasn’t like he was doing anything terrible, there was no one around. He didn’t have a mirror like this at home. 

Jack suddenly winced at a pain in his hips and looked down to see his nails had been digging in, leaving crescent moons imbedded in the flesh. He stared down at the marks, the way they stood out against his skin, and wondered, again, if any man would want him, seeing him like this. If they liked the look of bruises already left behind at the glean of sweat on Jack’s skin, whether it be from his workout or some other exertion. Hair plastered to his forehead, a flush to his cheeks from pushing himself a little too hard, the tremble of muscles recovering in his arms. Jack dared to meet his own eyes in the reflection, wondered if his blue eyes were really as arresting and innocent as every said they were. He wondered if a man would want to leave bruises on his skin just to contrast the chastity implied by the depths of the blue.

He wondered if Chris Pratt would want someone like him. Jack had always been attracted to someone who could make him laugh— then Chris Pratt had bulked up for Guardians and Jack had more or less had a bit of a crisis, seeing Pratt standing beneath that orange spray, bare chest heaving. The man could definitely lift Jack by his hips alone, carry him around Jack’s home and up his stairs, toss him onto the bed like Jack was nothing more than dirty laundry. He’d pin Jack to the mattress by Jack’s wrists, one hand encompassing both joints, holding Jack down so the only way Jack could touch the other man was if he arched his spin and pressed the front of their bodies together, cock against cock.

Jack broke out of the fantasy with a gasp and looked down to see he was palming himself through the front of his workout shorts, a slow waving motion of his hand, teasing himself. His lip was starting to hurt from the way his teeth were digging in, but he was too scared to let out any sort of noise in the locker room. He didn’t want anyone to hear him and he especially didn’t want to hear how he sounded.

God, the more Jack thought about it, though, the more he wondered what he would like. Did he want someone like Chris Pratt to take him or did he want something different? Maybe someone even stronger? A real fucking alpha, someone whose eyes alone could make him weak in the knees. His memory was drawn back to Jason Momoa, the absolute beast of a man who could get Jack to drop to his knees with a look, gag reflex be damned. Momoa wouldn’t even take him to a bed— he’d lift Jack by the hips and pin him between the wall and his rock solid body, keeping Jack still with his weight alone. Jack shuddered and looked down at his hips again the mirror, brought his free hand to the skin and pressed in as hard as he could with blunt fingertips, hoping to emulate what he was envisioning. Would Momoa want him? Would Momoa fuck him? Jack couldn’t even imagine taking the man’s cock, knowing it had to be intimidating from body proportion alone. He imagined himself trying to sink down on the girth of it and whimpered, the noise loud enough to tear him from his thoughts. His thighs were trembling.

Jack lowered himself carefully to his knees, spread his thighs wide and rested his hands on the top of his legs. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the pretty picture he made, lips parted slightly to accommodate his inability to catch a breath. His chest was flushed with a fine pink below the dusting of chest hair and the trail of curls disappearing down into his shorts were a temptation he’d never found in himself. Jack swallowed hard and rolled his hips into empty air, relying on the teasing brush of his hard cock in the confines of his shorts. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t even close. 

He wondered if maybe he didn’t want a man bigger than him. Maybe he wanted someone smaller? Gentler? Jack had always found himself in awe of body builders and true alphas, but he couldn’t imagine going beyond a passionate night with any of them in a way that wasn’t some stupid rom com joke. Sure, he’d love to wake up in the morning, cradled in the arms of a big strong man, but only in a way that made him laugh at himself. But if he imagined waking up with a man like himself— ordinary, yet attractive in their own way— he found his heart aching a little with loneliness. 

Who could it be, though? Maybe Bryan Dechart. Jack had more than a little bit of respect and celebrity worship for the man, and he’d been beyond ecstatic to meet Dechart in person. Dechart wasn’t Connor, but his voice and his face were the same, and Dechart himself proved to be a smart and capable man. His wife was probably the sweetest thing on this planet, and Jack would never imagine anyone coming between them, but— a harmless fantasy had never hurt anyone, right?

Jack imagined Dechart would be gentler than Pratt and Momoa, softer and more careful. Taking Jack by the hips and holding him down, but only to keep Jack in place so he could bring him apart, piece by piece. Jack imagined Dechart fucked like he wanted to get something out of it and make sure the other person got something out of it as well. A symbiotic thing, bringing each other to the edge in mutual benefit. Jack rolled his hips again, groaning softly at the horrible torture he was putting himself through. He wanted to touch himself more than anything, he wanted the relief of a hot hand around his throbbing cock, but he’d come this far. Jack knew he looked good, but he wanted to know who he would look good with. Who would want him. Who would see him in this mirror and hisself unable to resist. And who Jack wouldn’t be able to say no to either. 

Maybe Mark.

Even at the risk of his relationship because of the Septiplier chaos, Mark was a good looking man and had a body even Jack was jealous of, but he had the mannerisms of a gentle (short) giant who would rather kiss than fuck. Jack tried to picture Mark taking him to bed, lying him out on the sheets, displaying him for all to see, and Jack’s heart race. But whenever he tried to go past that, go beyond just getting their clothes off, even the slightest touch had Jack’s stomach curling. The thought of kissing Mark just wasn’t—

Jack was running out of options, running out of faces of men he’d submit to, men he would take to his bed and touch and worship and exist with beyond sex. He was running out of men he thought would even be slightly interested in him. Now that Jack had been looking too long, he could see what was wrong. His body was strong, but maybe he was too pale. His eyes seemed too big for his face and there were wrinkles at the corners he shouldn’t have at his age. His stomach was flat, but it didn’t look symmetrical. His legs were strong, but his knees looked weird. His beard was still patchy and his flushed skin seemed more diseased than anything. Who would want him like this? Who would look at him and think about taking him, adding bruises to the sickly white skin, listen to Jack’s annoying voice in the throes of pleasure he didn’t deserve? Who the fuck thought Jack was worth anything? Who would want—

His phone, off to the side on his regular clothes, pinged with a message. There was a face on the screen next to the text asking him when he was coming over, a smiling visage that had worn that very smile simply because he was looking at Jack. A face that Jack hadn’t dared bring into this private moment with himself, legs spread in front of a mirror in the middle of a gym locker room, flushed with arousal. 

Felix would want him.

Jack didn’t even need to think about it, he just knew. Felix didn’t love people for their bodies, he loved them for the way they were passionate and cared and acted and spoke. And Felix loved Jack. He’d said it many times, publicly and privately, he’d shown it in the way he would always check up on Jack and try to include him in as many things as possible. Felix loved Jack and Felix was one of those rare gems of a person who didn’t fall into love out of attraction to the body, but to the soul.

Felix would want him. Jack knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Weird knees, wrinkles and pale skin. Felix would want every part of him. 

He’d take Jack by the hips and pin him down onto the bed, but instead of going for Jack’s cock, he’d go for his neck. Felix would kiss and suck and mark his way down Jack’s body, worshipping every inch of him, whispering soft words of affection that would make Jack’s eyes water. Felix would spread Jack’s legs carefully and leave bruises, not just on his hips, but on his inner thighs and stomach and throat. He’d leave bruises everywhere, not because of how they looked on Jack’s skin, but because of how they told the world who Jack belonged to. And then Felix would open Jack up slowly and push inside and fuck Jack until Jack couldn’t breathe and couldn’t think and couldn’t imagine anything but the way Felix made him feel perfect.

Jack shoved his hands down his shorts, unable to deny the desperate ache between his legs any longer. He had the image of Felix above him in his head, the distant sound of flesh on flesh as Felix fucked him like he loved him. Jack looked at himself in the mirror and couldn’t hold back a moan, imagining how he would look to Felix. Skin red and pink and hot, lips swollen and slick, blue eyes overtaken by black with lust. Felix would get Jack’s knees up to Jack’s ears and spread him wide and Jack would only be able to feel and touch and scream as Felix showed him just how much Jack was worth to Felix.

Jack whimpered and bucked his hips into his fist, entranced by the twist of his brow as he got closer and closer. He ran his free hand down his cheekbones, his jaw, his neck, imagined Felix touching him so gently to contrast the brutal pounding of his cock. Jack gasped Felix’s name as his grip on his cock became so tight that it hurt, barely able to keep a rhythm with how badly he needed to cum. The only slick keeping this from hurting was the precum leaking down Jack’s cock, making him wet with his own need. Jack gasped again and bent forward, holding himself up with one hand, knees spread wide on the linoleum floor, back arched, ass back, imaging Felix behind him in the mirror, fucking him hard enough to push him into the reflective glass. 

Jack was so close, so fucking close. The noises were falling uncontrollably from his lips now, broken whimpers and moans mixed with aborted breaths of Felix’s name, unable to finish all the syllables and face what he was doing. The pleasure was twisting low in his gut now, an urgent heat, building and building and stealing his thoughts. Jack strangled down a moan, looked up into the mirror one last time, saw how absolutely ruined he looked so close to the edge, and knew that Felix would think he was perfect.

Then Jack came with a ragged cry of Felix’s name, his hips jerking uncontrollably into his fist, cum staining the inside of his shorts. Every muscle in his body tightened as the pleasure wracked his frame, his already spent muscles shaking like leaves in a storm. When it finally ended, Jack’s arm gave out and he dropped to the ground with a gasp, face down, ass up, hand still down his shorts, covered in the mess. He labored for breath and wished Felix were behind him, holding his hips, cumming inside Jack and filling him. 

“Jesus christ,” he whispered to himself, vaguely remembering that this whole trek of self discovery had started simply with Jack wondering which of the men he’d met would want to fuck him. “That answers that question.”

His phone kept going off. Jack peeled himself up and off the floor, reaching out with a trembling hand to take his phone and finally answer Felix. There was a flurry of messages that had gradually grown from curious to annoyed to concerned. Jack felt bad, but he wasn’t if it was because he’d ignored Felix for so long, or if because he’d just had the most fantastic orgasm in the middle of a locker room to the idea of Felix fucking him like they were in love. Jack quickly answered Felix, made up some bullshit about getting into a rep for too long and that he’d be over after a quick shower. He didn’t expect Felix to respond so quickly, and was surprised when he did.

_don’t both showering i love your musk *kissy kissy* no homo_

Jack groaned and hung his head, setting the phone atop his clothes again. 

He’d just royally fucked himself, and in more ways than one.


End file.
